


In the Name of God

by ASinnersGrin



Category: No Fandom
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-16
Updated: 2018-11-16
Packaged: 2019-08-24 14:40:36
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 718
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16642136
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ASinnersGrin/pseuds/ASinnersGrin
Summary: Well, it's short and will end up rewritten, it's mostly an outline so I had something written whilst I still had the energy to get it done.





	In the Name of God

A gauntleted fist, the steel of the capping mould cold and biting in comparison to the body warmed oiled leather glove beneath, closed tightly over the weathered, beige skin of the Infidel Jihadi soldier kneeled before him with a creak, the thick scent of urine filling the ever so small room. Sharp eyes, the colour of a Winter's storm over the seas of his home island, stared down upon the defeated warrior with all the intensity of the long, tempered steel blade of the Crusader's sword that hung ever upon his waist.

"Sawf yakun li zawjatak, kafir." The Saracen managed to spit out past the large hand, causing a sharp inhale to resonate around the small room, particularly from the Syrian Orthodox men that had joined the troop on the border of the Holy Lands, after the Englishmen had finished the long march through the Byzantine lands, weary and battered by storm and ignorant heretic Peasantry.

"By the Seventh day, why must their tongue feel as filthy as their blood?" The tanned Crusader growled in frustration, turning his head towards one of his companions of a more Arabic origin. "Mâ'ik, what in the good name of the coddled babe did he say? I know I heard zawja in there." He knew Zawja, the Moorish in Hispania spit it at him enough as the tempered metal of his blade slid through their pliant flesh. Zawja meant wife, and Gérard was sick of the bastards speaking about Nicolaa, even if they didn't even know her name, or even that she truly existed beyond the majority of Christian Men being married. 

"He... He threatened to... defile your wife?" The inflexion of the Syrian's English, which was already broken, indicated the man's lack of surety in his wording of the phrase, but it was enough for Gérard. He'd obviously threatened Nicolaa, and that was completely unacceptable, even if it was a blank threat, thrown sharply at the Crusader in desperation to try and get to him, to bring any amount of doubt in his actions. Well, it had worked, but likely not in the way the Infidel had planned. Gérard's fist closed sharply, chain-mail tightening around his bicep as the muscle tightened, Saladin's soldier only had time to give a high pitched, wailing scream before his jaw splintered and Gérard's hand clenched into a fist once again, leather suddenly sticky and damp with blood, the air filled with the gurgling breaths of a man that had just realised he was dead. 

In two years of Hell, the infernal combat, the licking of flames after a siege, the blood-soaked grounds that he himself had ordered salted, he'd come to realise something. He was a ruthless, unforgiving man, seen as a monster by many in the march south into Hispania and more recently this, the most Holy of Lands, but the one thing that truly mattered to him these days, with the knowledge that his father was dead and he had helped with a bloody coup before leaving to serve under the very man he had deposed, was Nicolaa, and the fact that he loved her. And he would allow no filthy Saracen to besmirch her name, not whilst he drew breath and his Righteous Fury drove him deeper into their forsaken settlements. 

"Burn the women, they're probably witches, after all, they're Infidels. Slaughter the men, and the children." The order was given with a monotone voice as if he was bored of their conquest of the Levant cities. He shook the blood off of his hand with a smooth, practiced movement, lips twitching in a morbid, almost insane, grin as his heavy sabatons crushed the remainder of his victim's skull. "I'm almost certain Cœur de Lion will have need of us." The tall, broad man was still grinning as he marched towards the gate of the city, watching the flames begin to climb the wooden buildings. It was time to finish this Crusade that he no longer quite believed in, so he could go home to Nicolaa. So he could go home to his wife. And maybe one day forget that he had enjoyed these deeds, that he laughed as he walked into this, the circle of Wroth. "May the Lord, praise be onto his name, sort them after their deaths. Deus Vult." 

**Author's Note:**

> Well, it's short and will end up rewritten, it's mostly an outline so I had something written whilst I still had the energy to get it done.


End file.
